Pas De Deux
by QuiaVeritatis
Summary: V and Gordon are shadowing each other.
1. Chapter 1

Pas de Deux

Entry in non-adult category for the Phoenix Competition.

2nd Place winner.

* * *

Gordon

Gordon ducked down behind a row of cellos as the door opened letting in a sliver of light. He looked down at the luminous dial on his watch. _Twenty minutes. It's too soon for Anthony. Who just came in?_ He was careful not to muss his tuxedo as he shifted his crouch. The line of instruments hid him from anyone who might see him from the doorway, but also made it difficult for him to see the intruder.

Anthony was notoriously late. For everything, even a tryst as eagerly awaited as this one. Gordon looked at his watch again. _Can't be Anthony_. The shape that had moved through the door was much larger than Anthony, anyway. _Can't_ _be a woman. Must be a man. Who?_ These twenty extra minutes were supposed to be spent scoping out the instrument storage room, not hiding from the staff. _Is it an employee of the theatre?_ Gordon heard a soft scuffling near the percussion instruments. He raised his head. _There. Someone was there, doing what? Hiding too?_ The humor of the situation caught him and he put a hand to his mouth to stifle the laugh. _I'm going to use this in one of my skits._ He leaned against the wall, tucked his feet beneath him and settled in to watch. Maybe this man is also meeting his lover. _How exciting_.

But the intruder did not appear to be waiting. He was feeling along the wall, moving silently behind the chimes, the xylophone, then the glockenspiel, Gordon had to shift again to keep him in sight. Curiosity overcame his caution and his annoyance. He raised himself up to see better. The intruder passed through a shaft of light from the mezzanine above. It is a man. A man in a black cape and a large-brimmed hat. A Jacobean costume, a Guy Fawkes mask. Gordon ran through the night's programme in his head. _Is there a play tonight?_ He didn't think so. It was to be a string quartet during cocktail hour and supper, then speeches and a vocalist afterwards. No drama was expected. He ran a hand up over his eyes and through his hair. _Who is this man and what is he doing?_ He wished he would do it and leave. He checked his watch. _Ten minutes. Even if he is on time for once, Anthony will be coming through the door in just ten minutes._ _Not much time. I was so looking forward to this and now it looks like it will be spoiled._ He tried to allay his disappointment by thinking about the skit he would write about this adventure: He would call it, "Cello? Are you there?" or "Violins never solved anything".

Gordon watched as the dark man came out from behind the percussion instruments and found his way blocked by the grand piano, a huge shapeless form covered with a thick cotton dust cover. The man in the cape stopped suddenly, as though he was surprised to find a piano in the storage room. Gordon waited, watched incredulous as the caped man whisked the dust cloth from the piano, letting the drapery cascade to the floor in folds of dusty white. _Will he play?_ Gordon shook his head in dismay. _I will be discovered for sure if he plays even one note._ He began rehearsing excuses_. I've lost my programme, was looking for another. I was looking for the loo, took a wrong turn_. The caped man pulled the bench from under the keys, careful to make no sound. Gordon watched intently as the man sat down, one arm pulled the folds of the cape back and away so the dark fabric drifted over the white drapery beneath the bench.

To his astonishment, the stranger did not play, did not even touch a key. Instead he merely stroked the case. Gordon watched as he ran a gloved hand across the polished surface of the grand piano, stroking it like a kitten. Then ran his thumb along the edge from one end to the other. Not a sound floated across the room. Utter silence. It was eerie, to expect to hear a chord or a note and to hear nothing. Now, strangely, Gordon felt his ears burn with the need to hear a sound from that instrument. It was obscene to watch this pantomime, so much like a silent film. _Yet there can be no sound, for we are both hiding_. Gordon saw the intruder lean forward, remove his hat with a flourish. The man bowed; touched his forehead to the top of the piano. _I am watching another tryst after all._ Then the caped man stood, replaced his hat and carefully pushed the bench back beneath the keys. He picked up the dust cover with one smooth motion of his hands; there was the soft sound of the fabric as it fluttered over the instrument. Gordon watched as the man moved quickly past the piano and out the other door. _Come and gone so quickly._ _I will have to come up with another title for that skit_.

Gordon heard a crash from the direction the man had disappeared. There was a snapping sound and the feeble light from the mezzanine above flickered and went out. Gordon was in total darkness. He stood up. _What the Devil_? His glowing watch told him that Anthony was ten minutes late already. Outside he heard faint screams. _Screams?_ More crashing, then the mezzanine lights came back on. He heard footsteps running in the hallway behind him. The door behind him opened. The room lights snapped on. Gordon blinked, turned, still in shock. It was Anthony, one hand on the knob, one on the lights, his face a mask of pale horror. "Gordie! There's been a murder! One of the Party Members!"

V

V moved past the stone archway. No door to open and close. Yet. No fortress to hide within. Yet. Not a home. Merely a rickety camp cot, tucked away inside the flickering shadows created by his kerosene lamp on the craggy walls. A tin of biscuits. A bucket of stale water from a rainspout. _This was as much as I could do in a few months_. So much time had been spent healing. _Now I can start to make improvements_. He sank to the cot. Untied the cape, removed the hat. With a tired hand he pushed at the chin of the mask and slid it up over his head, taking the wig off with it. He unfastened the belt and allowed the knives to join the hat and cape on the floor. He lay back on the cot, careful of the wobbly leg beneath his left boot. The pain was back. The drugs had worn off before he had finished. He breathed deeply, moved his mind to that place, that quiet place where there was no pain, no violence, no death, and no screaming. _It is harder and harder when it should be getting easier. The mask hurts. It chafes and it's heavy._ _Hard to see and to breathe_, he touched his naked cheek, _but_ _this mask is worse._

_Six years later. The Art Opening. Gallery Twelve._

Gordon

Gordon lifted a Champagne glass from the tray as the waiter walked by. He bent his head just a little to observe the waiter's departure. _No sense in being obvious, but I'm not going to miss the opportunity either._ He watched the young man work the crowd, watched him exchange glances with the other waiter. _Yes. Opportunity…knocking rather loudly now…_

"Gordon, so nice to see you here."

"Ah, good evening, Mr. Creedy. A lovely presentation, fabulous food, brilliant music, and some very interesting art. I believe Gallery Twelve has outdone itself tonight."

"Perhaps. I have not come for the food and the music. There is a particular painting that is not in favor at the moment." Creedy tipped his head pointedly at "God Save the Queen".

"Oh, you mean that little bit of scribble. Well, it is harmless enough. The artist is a Colonial, after all. Can't expect much."

"Yes. I've been told that you have spoken to this…American."

Gordon tensed. In his best actor's voice he replied smoothly, "I have been introduced to each of the artists showing work tonight, Mr. Creedy."

"I see. Well. Enjoy the food and the music, Gordon." Creedy disengaged with little attempt at courtesy. Walked away. Gordon saw him heading toward Dascombe. Gordon's Champagne tasted sour now. He set it down.

V

V watched them. _No one loves a blind man_. He clutched his white cane defensively in front of him as he watched the well-dressed art patrons file past. Some of the women looked away as they approached. Even the men would clear their throats uncomfortably as they passed. V sat as still as a corpse on the bench closest to the door. It had occurred to him that some patrons may find it odd to see a blind man at an art opening, but V had not come for the art, though the paintings were interesting enough in a modern sort of way. _No. I have come for the music_. The newspaper had said there would be a string quartet, and that they would be playing Mozart and Beethoven and Schumann. He turned his head slightly, just enough to take in the musicians warming up beneath the featured painting, "God Save The Queen". It wouldn't do to move his head too much, the blind may cock their ears to hear, but appearing to look around would be a dead give away. Literally. He waited, enjoying the uncomfortable stares of the well-to-do. _No one loves a blind man. And no one will ask me to leave. Besides, I am as well-dressed tonight as any of you._

His disguise was an easy one, and effective. Thick black wraparound glasses, a fedora and a bit of stage make-up and spirit gum. A very fine suit as well. The finest he could steal. _Ah, they have begun_. The musicians began with a Mozart piece. He smiled and leaned back against the wall. _To hear live music being played. In an art gallery_. He sighed, closed his eyes, allowed himself to enjoy this blissful encounter. _Music is the only thing left to me of my humanity._

When the music was over, he listened to a boring presentation. The Gallery owner gave a speech. The artists were given a minute to introduce themselves. V sat very still. Two men were standing too close to him for comfort. The room was crowded, the Opening a great success, but the increasing press of bodies made him nervous. His escape route, earlier so carefully planned, now lay in shambles. There was no way anyone was going to leave this place in under ten minutes, even with a white cane. _I was foolish to come. I won't make this mistake again. Never another opening. Never another concert. I cannot risk going to where the art and music are. I will have to stay in my dark tunnel. Forever. _Now he felt a different kind of pain.

One of the two men, standing so close to V's bench that the hem of his jacket brushed his shoulder, said to the other, "That American's painting is causing quite an uproar among the Party members."

"Yes. Party Leader Creedy is investigating. I hear the painting will disappear by the end of the night."

"No kidding?"

"No.

"And the artist?"

"He will disappear too."

"Egad."

"A sad day for art. That means we will probably be seeing only landscapes and portraits from now on."

"Large portraits. On the sides of buildings."

"Not funny, old man. Not funny."

_No one loves a blind man. No one sees him, either._

Gordon

The limo pulled up outside Gallery Twelve. _I thank all that is good and holy in the world that it is a black one._ He rolled his eyes. Some of the newer ones were painted in patterns that would make a kaleidoscope puke. The doorman reached out to get the handle for him. Gordon was ready with his tip. As he sat down in the soft leather a young man in the seat across from him extended a champagne flute.

"Thank you," Gordon said, taking the glass. The young man smiled, poured a glass for himself, then lay back on the cushions. _This is going to be a very nice evening_. Gordon took a sip. _Lovely vintage_. He let the bubbles tickle as he enjoyed the tang. "What's your name, sweetie?" he asked.

"Matthew."

_Oh yes. Matthew. This will be a very nice evening. I need it to be, after having to spend two hours with Creedy and his minions._ Gordon took another sip of the champagne to wash his mind of that memory. _This deserves a skit._ He glanced over the rim of his glass at Matthew. _It's_ _thirty minutes home from here. I can think of a skit in thirty minutes. I will be laughing all the way to the bank._ He smiled to himself, letting the creative wheels turn. _Scene one: An art opening in Soho. Everyone who is anyone is there. A painting is unveiled to a shocked, yet appreciative crowd. Music is played. Enter, stage left: A grumpy old man in a trench coat. He approaches the lectern_. Gordon took another sip of champagne. _The old man speaks, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together in the sight of God to join together these two men: Our beloved Chancellor Adam Sutler and Andy Warhol."_ He snickered, choking a little on his Champagne. He always laughed at his own stuff. It was the only way he knew he was getting it right. Tomorrow he would fill it in, send it to the actors, get the art director involved. The show girls would need to be bridesmaids…maybe some ugly color brides always inflict on their bridesmaids… _yes, hot pink and lime green, each one carrying something other than a bouquet of flowers, what should it be? I know. Each bridesmaid would carry an AK-47. Yes, Not a shotgun wedding, a repeating rifle wedding_. Gordon laughed out loud. _This is going to be good_.

Mathew leaned forward with the bottle, "Another glass Mr. Dietrich?"

"Call me 'Gordon'."


	2. Chapter 2

V

V watched as a black limo pulled up to the doors. He stood there in the shadows until the doorman had finished putting someone inside. When the doorman turned away to attend to the next patron, he made his move out to the sidewalk, tapping the cane in front of him.

It was only a hundred yards to the nearest underground access point. It was blocked but for a hole he had made in the debris. No one would see him descending the stairs in this London murk, and certainly no one would follow him. He listened behind him as he tapped away in front. What an event. He was pleased to have been there, but not in the way he expected. He had not participated in the upper class art of banal and polite conversation. He had not touched the hors d'oeuvres, or had a glass of wine. He had not stood before each painting, gazing with an air of erudite comprehension, nor applauded each artist as he or she came to the podium. But he had listened and learned. And his fury grew with each snippet of conversation that reached his ears.

He pulled off the glasses as he reached the hole in the concrete, took off the fedora, and collapsed his cane. As he squeezed his body through the small opening he could not avoid the imagery of a birth. _A reverse birth_, he thought grimly, _a death_. _I pass through this constricted opening from being alive outside into the womb of death_, _from light to darkness._ _It's like backing into a Blake painting, and I'm going the wrong way_. He pressed the button on his torch, illuminated the tunnel around him. _But here is some light, even from a feeble torch. The darkness is not complete._ He turned and filled the hole behind him before making his way through the tunnel toward his new home.

_My last art opening. My last concert_. He stumbled on some unseen obstruction, sighed as he regained his footing, and moved closer to the wall. _Is this what I have come to, then? When they are each of them dead, then what? How long will it take me? In six years I have only managed fifteen of them._ He narrowed his eyes. _But I have my whole life, it will take as long as it takes._ And between each execution of Justice? _What then?_ V waved the torch against the walls, watched the shadows dance. He stopped. Flipped off the torch, and stood in the total darkness. _This is what it feels like to be dead. Dead inside_. He leaned back against the wall, slid down so he was sitting there, his knees to his chest.

He allowed himself to remember as far back as he could to the time before, when he was alive, but there were no images. Nothing. No faces, no names, no places, no feelings. The only thing that had not been erased, obliterated or ripped from him was art_. I was a musician. An actor. An artist_. These things he knew, for he could play a piano, he could remember a myriad of lines, and he found he could create images with just his finger dipped in the black residue of his kerosene lamp. Art was all he had left of who he must have been before. _And now? I cannot risk being discovered or captured merely to ease my mind with music, or to take a bit of pleasure in a play. I must not fail._

He tried to harden himself, to remind himself that his goal was everything for him now: bringing justice back to a world that had lost all semblance of freedom_. I am dead already, and as a ghost I will continue. I cannot be distracted with life, or love or music or art. Those things belong to the living and when I am successful, when I am finished, the world will have them again. But it is over for me, and I should not waste time mourning my own death. I died years ago and I am foolishly trying to reanimate a corpse._ The agony that engulfed him exposed him for the liar he was. _I am not dead, for a corpse feels nothing_._ I must be alive_; he put his head in his hands, _because this hurts so badly_.

_The Next Day._

Gordon 

Gordon looked up from his monitor as his office door opened. "Dascombe. Come in."

"Gordon, Listen. I know you're working on a skit, word has it it's about the art opening last night at Gallery Twelve. Please. You must delete it. Right away. Now."

"You're daft!"

No. No. I have here," Dascombe lifted a sheaf of paper, "orders from Creedy to kill the art story tonight. I am to have no mention on air. Nothing."

"What are you on about? Creedy wants to kill a story? Who the hell does he think he is?" Gordon sat back from his monitor, suddenly interested. _What's with this new government?_

"You were there. You saw the painting, by the American artist…ah…Simon Goldman. "God Save The Queen". Remember?

Gordon laughed. "Remember? It was bloody hysterical. I had to put my drink down I was laughing so much."

"Not so funny now. The Chancellor heard about it, got a photo of it. He's cancelled Goldman's visa and deported him. The painting is to be purchased by a party member and Sutler means to have it destroyed. We are to make no mention of the opening; all images of the painting are to be deleted. I know you are working on a skit about it…" Dascombe paused for a confirmation.

Gordon frowned, turned the monitor away from Dascombe. Hit the minimize button. "Maybe."

"Gordon. You can't. I won't air it. The actors won't play the parts. You must write something else."

"I don't like the idea of a censor, Roger. We've never had one before. Nothing like a censor to muck a man's creativity."

Dascombe shut the office door. He sat down in the chair next to Gordon's desk, pushed the papers across and tapped them with his finger. "Gordon. This isn't about what's right, or what we want. It's not about art, or creativity or good business. It's not even about television or broadcasting. It's about black bags, truncheons, barbed wire and Peter Creedy. Tell me you will delete that file and forget about last night's opening."

Gordon studied Dascombe's face. Saw the tightness around his eyes, the pallor around his mouth and the grey cast to his cheek. _I observe everything, for I am a master of scrutiny. The king of detail. That's where the humor is, the uncomfortable laughter in the finer points of human behavior. But now…there is no humor here. This man is terrified._ A twinge of foreboding ran through him, like it was contagious, like Dascombe had just infected him with something deadly. "Very well. I will." He brought his screen back to life, and turned the monitor so Dascombe could see the script half-developed in black and white. His hand hesitated for just a moment, then a long finger gently pressed the "delete file" key. The screen went blank, but his mind did not. _I won't let them win_.

Dascombe sighed. "God save us all."

_One Week Later_

V

V leaned the painting against the wall. Moved it left and right, arranged it so the feeble light from his lantern shone on it. Tomorrow he would hang it when he could get some wire. He smiled grimly. _Here in this dark tunnel. Amidst the shadowy dust and detritus of humanity's past, I am about to hang a painting. What kind of gallery is this horrible place, anyway?_ He laughed. It was a dry unhappy sound, and it echoed in the empty space around him. A shadow gallery. _Yes. A single painting makes this hole a gallery_. He looked around. _There is a mile of space here. A mile of wall space. I could hang hundreds of paintings here_. He frowned, touched the stone wall. _If they would destroy this painting, what else might they destroy? Make disappear? Remove from circulation?_ A tug at his heart, a hope, _if I can save this one, I can save others_. _I can bring the art and music to me._ He felt faint, sank down to the flagstones. Such an idea required that he sit down.

Gordon

Gordon swept the dust from the top of his mahogany desk. Inside the desk was a stack of crisp white stationary, from years ago. Still white, still useful. He sat down and picked up a pen. _This form of communication, scratching with a pen on paper…so antiquated, yet the only possible way to evade electronic surveillance._ _I can only hope that this stationery looks enough like a party invitation to keep it from being opened._

"Dear Mr. Goldman:

I have heard of your recent misfortune in London and am prepared to do what I can to aid you in your recovery. I had heard that your painting, "God Save the Queen" had been purchased the night of the opening at Gallery Twelve. I am willing to offer you more than the agreed upon price. If you break the contract with your prior sale, I can assure you that your important work will have an honorable place with me for the remainder of my life. If you agree please send your reply to the drop box printed on the enclosed card.

I am hopeful we can reach a mutual agreement.

Sincerely,

An art aficionado".

Some weeks later Gordon received his reply:

"Dear Art Aficionado:

Yours was not the first letter of concern I received after the London showing. I was contacted by another anonymous art lover who, instead of offering me cash, assured me that my painting is safe from all attempts to remove or destroy it. He offered to ship it to me overseas, but I'm afraid my circumstances here make me unable to accept his generous offer. If you are interested I will contact my benefactor through his drop box if he would prefer to sell you the painting in my name and take a dealer's commission. If this arrangement is agreeable to you, please reply as soon as possible.

Sincerely,

Simon Goldman

_One Month Later_

V

V looked at the address on the printed card. _Amazing that he would trust me_. He shook his head. _Such a secret should make him more careful. He needs to take these Party Members more seriously. This isn't a game._ Tonight he would transport the painting to this address. He had looked it up. He knew the house belonged to Gordon Dietrich. Knew the man had made arrangements with Mr. Goldman. _He should have chosen a neutral site for a trade off. He should have remained anonymous._ He tore the card to bits, the information memorized. He was not sorry to lose the painting. He didn't like it. Didn't like the idea of Monarchy, of Fascism, of the Dictator. The only thing he liked about the painting was that he had it and they didn't. He liked the _idea_ of this piece. The idea of free expression. Now it was wrapped up in several layers of foam and packing paper. It weighed more than thirty pounds, and was large enough to be awkward. He would get it to Mr. Dietrich's house, unseen, unnoticed and under their very noses. Not all of the underground had been sealed shut. He reached for his cloak.

Gordon

Gordon turned around, made a final check_. Everything is ready_. He closed the secret room in his wine cellar. _That was easy to do. Attach a frame across the cellar. Insert Wine. Voila. __If the government objects to one painting, they certainly will object to a great many things in my house_. _Including me_, he thought wryly.

He glanced at the clock. _Twenty minutes_. In twenty minutes he would have it. _Let's hope my art dealer is not late_. Somehow Dietrich knew that this man would be prompt. Gordon followed the mysterious stranger's instructions. He disabled his security systems, unlocked his back door, turned off all the lights but one in a distant hallway. _The Conservatory is the best choice for the delivery. It is a big room, has fewer windows to improve the acoustics, and is on the ground floor in the back._ Gordon entered, ducked down in shadow behind the cello to wait. The agreement had been that Gordon would stay away. That he would come to the conservatory only after 1 AM to collect his treasure. They were not to meet. _But I have to see him. I want to know what he looks like, this other art lover. This man who is like me. This man who defies the Party. Risks so much for a painting. For a stranger. Curiosity, my great weakness._

At precisely midnight he heard a sound. Gordon froze. A dark shape was gliding past him, a fluttering cloak, a broad- rimmed hat. A huge painting in his arms. The shadowy form barely interrupted its flow through the room to lean the painting against the wall. The painting seemed to be forgotten as the man moved in complete silence toward the baby grand in the center of the conservatory. Gordon did not move a muscle. Some distant memory tingled in the back of his mind as the man gave a quarter turn, checking out the doorways. A white mask floated in the darkness. _Fawkes. Yes. _The memory pulled at him. The shadow man ran a gloved hand across the piano in a soft caress. _Yes. I remember now. The Theatre. Six years ago. Oh god_. The shadow man lowered himself gracefully to the bench, the cape draped behind him, brushing the polished floor. Gordon watched as he slid the cover back to expose the keys. _Will he play this time?_ _No, he merely strokes them silently_. But Gordon did hear a sound. It sounded like a sob.

_One Week Later_

V

V slit the envelope with a knife, pulled out the crisp paper and unfolded it. _It looks like an invitation._

Dear music lover:

By now you may have already confirmed our agreement. Your commission is in the Swiss account you specified and my purchase has found a permanent home.

A successful transaction however, cannot do justice to the gratitude I feel for your fearless participation in my little drama. A token of my sincere appreciation will be waiting for you on the evening of November 5th. On that night, at precisely midnight there will be a lorry parked at 23464 Maundy Lane. Inside the lorry you will find a pallet-mover and a very heavy crate. The lift-gate on the lorry will be all the help you need. Some noise is to be expected unloading such a large burden, but as the air will be filled with the sound of fireworks and drunken revelry; you will be able to claim your gift with a minimum of fuss and scrutiny.

Mind you remember to keep her tuned. And polished. She has the voice of an angel, but I will not miss her.

Take care of her. She deserves a lover, not an old satirist like me.

Sincerely,

GD


End file.
